


And You'll Spread Your Wings and You'll Take to the Sky

by fallovermelikestars



Category: Glee
Genre: M/M, Romance, Summer, pre-season 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-28
Updated: 2013-01-28
Packaged: 2017-11-27 07:01:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/659205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallovermelikestars/pseuds/fallovermelikestars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>”This summer is important, important in a dark, looming 'your life will never be the same afterwards' kind of way – every fiber of his being is telling him he needs to make the most of it, of Kurt. How can he do that if he has to share him, to share him with his stupid well-intentioned-but-still-overbearing brother, and with yet another city that might steal a piece of Kurt's heart?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	And You'll Spread Your Wings and You'll Take to the Sky

**Author's Note:**

> Initially posted to LJ back in October.  
> I couldn’t have done any of this without my amazing beta, insatiablyyours, who took my wafflings and made them pretty and listened to me rant and pointed out my flaws; who seemed to know what I wanted to say even when I couldn’t articulate it properly and managed to turn me into an almost passable American –- I think. If this is anything at all, G, it’s down to you and I will forever drink cocktails in your honour [honor –- do you see what I did there? ;) ]
> 
> Title is stolen shamelessly from Gershwin’s “‘Summertime”’ because Gershwin, guys, Gershwin.
> 
> I do not own anything other than an overactive imagination and too many pairs of shoes. And a whole lot of love for the Bros. Anderson.

One thing you should know about Blaine Anderson is that he loves the summer. He loves the heat and the sunshine and the fact that there’s no school and the fact that he gets to be outdoors. More often than not he's with his boyfriend, who – in the privacy of their own homes – wears significantly fewer layers than he does the rest of the year. Summer is Blaine’s favorite season; even in the run up to Kurt’s graduation, Blaine was making plans for this summer, plans that involved taking advantage of the heat of Ohio and the increased freedom of being 18, not to mention being alone with Kurt and touching and tasting all that bare skin. Blaine loves summer and Blaine has plans. That is the first thing you should know.

Another thing you should know is that Blaine Anderson is a people-pleaser. He always has been and more than likely always will be. That’s not a bad thing, necessarily: he’s not a people-pleaser to the point of being a doormat – he doesn’t let people walk all over him and he has beliefs and values, opinions that he has absolutely no issue expressing and defending... He’d just rather see people happy than not. Unless it’s something really important, nine times out of ten he will back down and avoid confrontation, preferring to just nod and agree rather than get into an argument. Later, he'll usually take his frustrations out on the punching bag. This is how Blaine gets by.

All in all, Blaine likes to think he's pretty amenable. There really aren’t very many things he can think of that he categorically doesn’t want to do.

That said, Blaine doesn’t want to go to LA.

He really doesn’t.

It’s not because it’s Cooper that’s invited them, because he and Cooper have been getting along really well lately, so it’s not that at all – except that maybe it is, because Blaine isn’t an idiot and he knows it takes more than a week, a heartfelt Gotye song and a hug to fix the seven million problems he has with his older brother and he knows the main reason they've been getting along so well is because he has been in Ohio and Cooper has been, well, anywhere that isn’t.

But it’s not _entirely_ because LA is Cooper’s idea. And it’s not because he doesn’t enjoy the idea of spending the summer at the beach in LA because hello, look at his skin please, he was _born_ to tan. And it’s not because when Kurt had read the invitation he’d rolled over and buried his face in Blaine’s pillow and actually squealed. _Squealed._ And Blaine still doesn’t know whether he had been squealing at Cooper or at LA or at both, he just knows it had made his stomach tighten in that unpleasant way that he associates with always living in Cooper's shadow. And what if one day, now that Kurt has graduated, he leaves Blaine far, far behind?

Blaine’s main reason for not wanting to go to LA is a selfish one: he doesn’t want to share. This summer is important, important in a dark, looming “your life will never be the same afterwards” kind of way – every fiber of his being is telling him he needs to make the most of it, of Kurt. How can he do that if he has to share him, to share him with his stupid well-intentioned-but-still-overbearing brother, and with yet another city that might steal a piece of Kurt's heart? He’s still not quite ok with it, with the prospect of Kurt leaving and Blaine staying and being _alone_ and of course Kurt is being a darling: he holds Blaine's hand and peppers his hair with kisses and whispers promises of _always_ and _never_ into his hair and Blaine believes him, he does. It doesn’t change the fact, though, that in a matter of weeks Kurt will be gone and Blaine won’t get to see him, to touch him every day; he will have to wait to tell Kurt things; he'll be in a place where his boyfriend is not (and he _transferred schools_ because he couldn’t stand to be apart from the person he loved). He is absolutely petrified.

Blaine wishes, kind of, that he’d been the one to read the text from Coop and that he’d been able to delete it and never mention it to Kurt. Then they could spend the summer lounging in the Hudson/Hummels' garden, drinking Carole’s iced tea and not caring about anybody but each other – except that Blaine doesn’t have that kind of luck.

It had been Kurt who had read the message, because he’d taken to asking Blaine to read Kurt's texts aloud rather than passing over his phone; no matter how many times Blaine has said it’s fine, Kurt still feels guilty about the Chandler debacle earlier this year, feels like he has something to prove, feels that Blaine needs reassuring.

_"Honestly Blaine, I just want you to know that I have nothing to hide, not now, not ever, and there is nothing on my phone that I wouldn’t want you to see.”_

This meant, of course, that Blaine had to do the same – Sebastian had come before Chandler and even though Kurt insisted that he didn’t care about that now, that Sebastian was history and Blaine had nothing to prove anyway, Blaine knew that he kind of did. So when his phone beeped and Kurt had glanced over and said, “It’s Coop,” the only option Blaine had had, really, was to reply and ask, “What’s it say?”

Of course what it said, roughly, was, _“You two are coming to visit because I’m Cooper Anderson and I'm your big bro which means I know best, Blainey, and this may be phrased like an open-ended invitation but I suggest you consider it non-negotiable: why don’t you and Kurt come visit?”_ Kurt hadn’t been able to read the text aloud fast enough, and then he’d done the whole face-in-pillow squealing thing. When Kurt had finally looked up his face had been all flushed and his eyes had been shining in a way they hadn’t since _that day_ and Blaine had known in that second that he was screwed.

“LA, Blaine.”

“Yes.” Blaine had nodded his head slowly and a little unsurely, because this was Kurt and he was so excited and it _would_ be awesome to go away, just the two of them. No adult supervision apart from Cooper, obviously, but he hardly behaved like an adult – Blaine doubted he had ever supervised anything in his life. But then, this was well and truly _Cooper_ , with no buffers like Mom or Dad or even Mr. Schuester, and Blaine’s relationship with him was nothing if not tenacious. And Blaine had dreamt up those plans for this summer, plans that absolutely did not involve Cooper or LA or not having Kurt pretty much all to himself.

_"LA, Blaine."_

“Yes.” It wasn’t tentative at all the second time, it was just “yes” because God, what other answer was there when Kurt was looking at him like that?

And then Kurt had reached out and grabbed him by the wrist, tugging him down onto the bed and pushing his henley up, his long fingers pressing hard into the small of Blaine’s back, kissing him hungrily, desperately. Blaine had tried not to focus on the fact that he was getting laid off the back of his brother being “so handsome and good”; to just go with it. Afterwards, when Kurt had laid curled into him, his hand curled loosely round Blaine’s bicep and his breath ghosting across his chest, Kurt had whispered it reverently into the afterglow: “LA, Blaine.”

And it’s not just because of the blowjob – although Kurt is amazing at giving head – but it’s because Blaine wants to give Kurt everything; because Kurt deserves it; because Blaine remembers “I want my senior year to be magical” and it’s like a punch to the gut – it makes histhroat hurt every time.

A vacation to Los Angeles isn’t going to make it all better, won’t make up for the fact that Kurt’s senior year was less magic and more ridicule, not only from his peers but even from the faculty: _“Hummel’s too much of a lady,” “Porcelina,”_ and so much more; some bastard going after Kurt with a doctored slushie – fair enough, Blaine had been the one to be almost blinded but it had been meant for Kurt –; losing the election; and everything with Karofsky, just knockback after knockback after soul-destroying knockback...

Of course, not getting into NYADA wasn’t a total disaster: Kurt actually had a back-up plan and a choice of colleges between which he spent the back end of his senior year debating, because he’s Kurt Hummel and anybody that thought he wouldn’t have had plans A through Z clearly knows him not at all. But all the _security_ in the world doesn’t begin to make up for the fact that NYADA said no, so if this vacation will ease the sting just a little bit then it’s a no-brainer, really; so Blaine had sighed, picked up his cell, and sent Cooper a curt text in reply: _“Yeah. Ok.”_

And that had been it. It had spiralled out of Blaine's control then.

What followed was a long and awkward conversation with Burt about how yes they’d be staying with Cooper and yes of course he was a responsible adult – God, Blaine hated lying to Burt Hummel, was still waiting actually for some kind of lightning bolt from the heavens to strike him down – and yes they’d be supervised at all times and yes, Carole, he is the brother from the credit rating advertisement, I only have one and _yes of course_ you think he’s wonderful _how is this my life._ Carole seemed to have been sold from that moment on; Burt on the other hand had been a tougher nut to crack. Good fortune, then, that Kurt had 18 years of experience doing so.

He had led with the guilt trip: “I just had my dreams snatched cruelly away, I’m heartbroken and I’m lost and don’t you think I need a little change of scenery?” The underlying “since I might not be getting out of here anytime soon and I’m suffocating” had gone unspoken but not unheard. Burt had raised an eyebrow. Kurt had switched quickly to irate because, “I just graduated high school, Dad, I’m not a kid. I’m leaving home any day now and you won’t even let me go on a supervised vacation with my boyfriend.”

Blaine hadn't been able to focus then on how justified Kurt's argument was or wasn't. Couldn't make sense of it through the “any day now” that kept roaring in his ears, until he couldn’t hear anything else, see anything else. It had taken Kurt’s hand squeezing his knee and Kurt's voice gentle in his ear to bring him back.

Blaine still wasn’t sure how he was going to survive without Kurt, wasn’t even sure if he had it in him and he hated himself, _hated himself_ , for the fact that he was so hooked on this boy.

Burt had relented in the end. Blaine had kind of always known he would; something in the tilt of Burt’s head, the look in his eyes suggested he only put up a fight to try and assert some kind of control.

“I’m still your Dad, kid, I still make the rules.”

_Except_ Blaine thought, _you love Kurt Hummel and you have to accept that you don’t make any of the rules at all, not really._ It was like some kind of fairy magic: they’d walk on hot coals just to see that smile, the one that makes Kurt's eyes crinkle, the one that nobody had seen since they’d sent Rachel off at the train station. Kurt had driven home that day via the ice cream parlor and eaten a sundae bigger than his head, with extra toppings, and then he had totally reorganized his wardrobe. Not that it was one-sided; Kurt would do the same for others, Blaine knew, for him and Burt and Rachel and for any of the people lucky enough to be part of his inner circle, even for Santana. Kurt would do whatever it took to help them, to make their lives easier, to hear them laugh. And Blaine laughed more with Kurt than he had in his life before, ever.

It had been easier convincing Blaine's own parents.

“Cooper invited Kurt and I to stay for a while.”

“Hmm? With him?”

“Yeah. That ok?”

“If you like. Maybe you can talk some sense into him, then – he really doesn’t seem to be using his head when choosing jobs lately; God knows it’s embarrassing when people keep asking if that’s my son advertising _credit ratings_ of all things. He seems to listen to you, Blaine. You be sensible though, you hear? Don’t make us regret trusting you.”

“I won’t.”

“Good. And we’ll be calling him, setting up ground rules. This is not an excuse to go wild, Blaine.”

“Of course not.”

A clap on the back from his father and a soft smile from his mother. Blaine wished his parents cared enough to say no.

Santana had _cackled_ when he’d told her, over coffee at the Lima Bean while Kurt was helping his dad at the garage. Held her sides and thrown her head back and just laughed and laughed. Apparently it was amusing that Blaine was going to be forced to deal with Cooper in his natural habitat. He knew it was only because she’s jealous; she has some weird hetero crush on Cooper (and why is everyone in the _world_ in love with Blaine’s brother?) but still.

Kurt doesn't understand Blaine's friendship with Santana. Blaine tries sometimes to convince Kurt that she's not as caustic as she seems; she's just a scared misunderstood little girl really, hiding behind a jagged front to protect herself in the same way Kurt himself does, to a degree. It makes Blaine wish, privately that he could just _fix_ things, not them so much because they’re not _broken_ but fix…well, the world, really. The world that's given them so much cause to protect themselves.

Kurt just rolls his eyes.

_”She's not an armadillo, Blaine.”_

Blaine's pretty sure that a lot of Kurt's derision when it comes to Santana is due to his own insecurities, his own defenses against cutting words that he can’t help associating with slushies and dumpsters and being thrown against lockers, even though Santana was never the direct cause of any of those things. So Kurt and Santana aren’t friends in the way Blaine and Santana are, but Blaine knows that Kurt loves her – Blaine knows it viscerally, knows that Kurt helped her pick a prom dress, that Santana played a huge part in making Kurt’s return to McKinley possible. Kurt even proposes they see her outside of school once in a blue moon. Kurt might not understand her but he loves her still, in the way one loves an unbearable sibling.

In the way Blaine loves Cooper.

Blaine knows you can't choose your family; sometimes he wonders how the hell it happened, how he got _him_ as a brother when they have so little in common. He wonders some days whether it might have been better to be an only child or whether he was somehow mistakenly handed to the wrong family at birth, but when it comes down to it, his family are the people that will always (usually) be there on some level – perhaps not always in the way he’d expect or hope – but there all the same, when he needs them. Cooper has always been there for Blaine; sometimes Blaine wishes he wasn’t because he’s _Cooper_ , God, and he makes everything into a production whereas Blaine just likes to keep his head down for the most part at least (unless the occasion calls for theatricality – everything in moderation after all), but deep down he’s glad of his brother's existence.

It’s the same with Santana. Nobody asked her to patrol the corridors so Kurt could go back to McKinley and not live in fear; nobody asked her to show Sebastian what the New Directions were made of after that whole thing with the slushie. She just _did_ it. She did it because the New Directions, they’re a family of sorts and as much as they snipe and catcall and outright hurt each other, the second anybody from the outside so much as looks at them funny, they close ranks. Maybe Blaine wouldn't have advised or supported the violin-off-paired-with-underboob scheme, but just because he disagreed with her strategy doesn't mean he wasn't grateful she was looking out.

: :

After Blaine had sung ”It's Not Right” in glee, Santana had come to him in the Lima Bean, demanded he buy her a coffee and dragged him to a table where she'd looked right at him over the top of her cup, her stare so piercing he'd had to look away.

“Fuck me, Bow Tie, that was some performance,” she'd said.

“I don't want to talk about it.”

She ignored him. “You've got it wrong, you know.”

“You have zero clue what's going on here. And I really don't want to...'”

“It's not rocket science. You think Hummel cheated on you, I'm telling you he didn't. Simple 's that.”

“It's more complicated than you think.”

“Always is, sweet cheeks, but here's the thing: you and Kurt have always been more vomit-inducing than a bottle of skittles vodka. Whatever you think is going on, you've got it wrong. There’s no way he played you.”

“I found texts.”

“And I heard him say you were being ridiculous – I have no idea why it's taken him this long to work that out, you advertise your ridiculousness daily on a bow tie round your neck – but my point is, if _he says_ you're pulling a Berry-esque fit then you probably are.”

Blaine had sighed, looked down at the table feeling his eyes fill with tears again, knowing Santana would never let him live it down if she saw him cry.

“Jesus. It's worse than I thought.” She had reached forward and touched the back of his hand lightly with the tips of her fingers, the contact brief and feather soft before she drew her hand back, leaning back in her seat and folding her arms across her chest. “Look, here's how I see it. As much as it pains me to say, it's pretty clear you and Kurt are the real deal. It's also pretty clear that even though you have a hot as hell voice and you're really angry right now, the lyrics to that song are bullshit. You don't think you'd rather be alone, without Kurt in your life, so man up, stop singing and crying and go talk to your boy. Don't fuck this up.”

: :

Cooper had paid for the plane tickets: open-ended although they’d promised Burt no more than a month and Blaine was leaning towards a week, _tops_ , while trying to ignore Kurt’s dreamy “just think, Blaine, I could be discovered and _never_ come back. I could be Coop’s roommate and win a Golden Globe before Rachel even has time to say Tony.” As if that wasn’t the stuff nightmares were made of. It was a graduation present for Kurt, which was sweet of Coop if a little weird, and it totally outshone Blaine’s monogrammed towels, which he’d put a lot of thought into, dammit. Nevertheless, it wasn't Cooper who had spent days of early June curled on Kurt’s bed with his feet tucked under him, surrounded by sweaters and scarves and pants and shorts and t-shirts and hats ( _how does Kurt manage to look hot in everything he ever tries on ever, really?_ ) while Kurt had tossed outfit after outfit aside, trying to mix and match. He'd ended up with his fingers pressed to his temples, his eyes closed.

“This is a disaster, Blaine. My wardrobe is not designed for Los Angeles.”

It had been up to Blaine to calm him down with kisses and gentle words; to help him take a step back and regroup; to nod his head encouragingly at each item Kurt lovingly placed into his case and to slowly convince him all over again that LA was a fabulous idea and they’d be fabulous, making memories they’d treasure forever. That _of course_ they wouldn’t be better here in Lima, Kurt, in your back garden where your wardrobe works perfectly... and there Kurt was working that freaking magic again.

On the day they're to travel west, they meet at the airport, stupidly early in the morning. Kurt’s wearing long grey shorts and an ice blue boat-necked t-shirt and Blaine can see his collarbone – is everybody's collarbone as delectable as Kurt's? This flight is going to be hell because Blaine already wants every stitch of clothing off him, like, _now_. Blaine doesn’t think he’s ever seen Kurt look so casual outside of booty camp or his own house. Or as hot. He can’t stop staring. Through the goodbyes and the hugs and the promises to behave and the “I’m 18, Dad, not 8”s, Blaine can’t take his eyes off Kurt and Kurt turns to him when they are finally, finally alone and quirks an eyebrow.

“What?” Kurt asks, nonchalant.

“I’m just thinking.” Blaine shrugs.

“About what?” He takes a step closer and Blaine thinks he probably already knows.

“I’m wondering,” he says with a smile, flicking his eyes to Kurt’s and then away again, “whether all the people in all the world who have boyfriends are driven to distraction by how hot said boyfriends are. I mean, I can’t even remember my name when I’m around you, Kurt. Is that how it is for everyone? Is that, like, a thing?” He gestures round the airport, his stomach dipping at the pleased and slightly smug smile on Kurt’s face.

“Statistically,” Kurt replies, stepping closer again, “I’m going to say yes.”

“'Statistically'?”

“I took a brief poll,” and it’s Blaine’s turn to raise an eyebrow now, “and the results were unanimous actually. Being distracted to the point of insanity by one’s incredibly hot boyfriend is indeed, a 'thing.'”

“Oh really?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“And just how many people took part in this poll, exactly?”

“Oh,” Kurt says airily, reaching down for the messenger bag that’s been resting against his calf and slinging it easily over his shoulder as their final boarding call is announced, “Just two."

He turns and heads towards the gate with a look in his eyes that says “come the fuck _on_ , Blaine” and with a small smile that's right out of Bridget Jones. And Blaine wants to catch him, to grab him by that perfect face and just kiss him 'til he can’t breathe and sometimes he just hates Ohio and the fact that he can’t do that.

Maybe LA won’t be so bad after all.

: :

Cooper is waiting for them at Arrivals, just like he’d said he would be. Slightly back from the pressing crowds waiting for loved ones, leaning casually against a wall and holding up a piece of cardboard with _“Paging Blainers”_ scrawled across it in thick, black, block capitals. He has one ankle crossed over the other, his lips quirked in a smirk, his eyes shielded by dark sunglasses. Ray-Bans. Inside. Blaine feels his heart rate increase just a little because that’s his brother and despite the sunglasses and the sign he can’t help it: he’s missed him.

“Only Coop,” Blaine mutters to Kurt, pointing in Cooper's general direction and then raising his arm in a wave that his brother doesn’t return. “Only Coop would believe he actually pulls off shades indoors.”

“Probably trying to hide from the paparazzi, darling,” Kurt drawls, grabbing Blaine by the hand because they’re not in Lima anymore, Toto, and he feels like he can. Blaine grins. He can’t help it. Something shifted in him on the plane, his forehead pressed to the window and Kurt asleep on his shoulder, snuffling quietly. Somehow LA doesn’t feel anymore like Cooper is trying simultaneously to annoy him and outshine him, or like a big shiny city is trying to infringe on his time with Kurt. Instead it feels like an adventure, an opportunity, another first he can cross off his list with Kurt by his side. It feels like sunshine and movie stars and Kurt’s hand in his whenever, wherever, however – despite himself, Blaine is excited. He lets Kurt pull him through all the people, the crowd parting (or so it feels) to let two boys and too much luggage pass until they come to a stop. Kurt lets go of his case – but not of Blaine – and grins.

“Hey,” Kurt says, practically bouncing with excitement, and Blaine just wants to kiss him. He always wants to.

Cooper straightens up then, smiles his easy, white-toothed smile, and waves his homemade sign at them, practically shoving it in Blaine’s face as he pulls Kurt into a one-armed hug.

“Kurt! Well done. You know, for finishing school.”

Blaine rolls his eyes, grabbing the sign and huffing out a laugh, and then Kurt’s straightening his shirt and pretending to not even be just a little bit ruffled that _Cooper Anderson_ just hugged him. Blaine is just thinking how adorable that is when Cooper wraps him up in his arms, squeezing tight, lifting him off the ground and spinning him around.

“You know what I love about you most, Squirt? That you’ll never be too big for me to do this.”

Blaine can’t even bring himself to be pissed at the overdone dig at his height or the hated nickname because Cooper’s laughing and Kurt’s laughing and Blaine is pretty sure he can smell the ocean from right there in LAX.

“Put me down, Cooper, God.”

Cooper gives him a final spin before setting him down on his feet and grabbing their cases. “Come on then, boys and boys. Let’s get out of here.”

He’s renting an apartment in Santa Monica, he tells them as they head for the parking lot, and Kurt squeezes Blaine’s hand in excitement. _Santa Monica._

Blaine wonders if the urge to roll his eyes every time his brother opens his mouth will ever dissipate.

It's a summer rental because Cooper’s taking a break from work, which Blaine thinks is clearly code for “there is a serious shortage of call-backs,” but it’s only a 30 minute drive from the airport and a 30 minute drive from "the town” (which Blaine assumes means Hollywood). Cooper’s already got plans to show the boys all the sights and he might have to work next week, (“ _There’s this fantastic pilot, Blaine, this could be my big break…can’t you just imagine me as a dDoctor?”_ Honestly, Blaine really can’t; the very thought terrifies him, but he does hope this is his brother’s big break) but he’s sure he can get both boys on set – they’re hardly going to say no to him, after all. His place is right by the beach so they can play volleyball (“ _...like we did when we were kids, Blainers. I’m pretty sure I can still kick your ass,” “I’m pretty sure you can, Coop, if you still cheat.”_ ) and maybe surf and there are some awesome bars (“ _You guys do have cards? Do not tell the ‘rentals I asked you that, Blaine. What happens in Hollywood stays in Hollywood,”_ he'd said as he held out a fist to be bumped) – Blaine has to admit it sounds like fun. Kurt just seems to be in a daze as he listens, looking at Cooper in awe and hand still clasping Blaine's tightly. It makes Blaine laugh because witnessing Cooper Anderson at full speed for the first time is nothing if not exhausting.

“How do you actually _breathe?_ ” Kurt asks when Cooper finally stops talking. Cooper just grins, and shrugs and gestures grandly.

“Your carriage awaits,” he says.

“This is _your car?_ ” Kurt says exactly what Blaine was thinking. Blaine would proudly put it down to the two of them being totally in-tune normally except that even a blind person would be surprised to find Cooper pointing a car key at a grimy convertible jeep with “bite me” written in the dirt on its trunk and some kind of prayer beads hanging from the rearview mirror. Cooper rolls his eyes.

“No, this is Margo's car. My car wouldn't hold all your shit.”

“Who's...”

“Get in.” Cooper pulls open the passenger door and bows to Kurt. “You're in the back, B, since Kurt's a guest.”

Technically, Blaine thinks, he's a guest too, but he is nothing if not chivalrous and at least if he's in the back he can concentrate on the way Kurt's hair curls at the nape of his neck and not on Cooper's driving. He still doesn't actually know how his brother got a license; Blaine suspects it was downloaded off the Internet.

“I'm sorry you didn’t get into NYADA, Kurt,” Cooper says once they're on the road. Blaine sees Kurt stiffen a little, his shoulders tensing; he thinks he can see the set of Kurt's jaw even from behind. A part of him wants to interject but it's bound to come up again and maybe it's best to get it out of the way now. He settles for reaching forward and squeezing Kurt's shoulder gently.

“Yeah,” Kurt says, softly. “Me too.” It's his standard answer now the pain has dulled a little and the reality has set in. He saves the tears, what he calls the “histrionics,” for when it's just him and Blaine. Blaine is so proud of his dignity and his courage; to think he ever tried to advise Kurt on courage, it seems laughable when he looks at the man his boyfriend has become: accepting the NYADA rejection with his head held high even though everybody who heard his audition knows he deserved it, gracefully accepting condolences, exchanging excited texts with Rachel even as she prepares to live out his dream. Blaine finds something new about Kurt to captivate him every single day.

“I’m sure you don’t want to talk about it,” Cooper continues, “but don’t give up hope. I mean, look at me. Oh, that reminds me.” He reaches behind himself into the backseat, grabbing at an envelope that rests on the seat next to Blaine’s thigh. “I got you something; call it moral support or something.”

He hands the envelope to Kurt, who opens it quizzically, looking over his shoulder at Blaine, who just shrugs. He has no idea.

“Oh my God, Cooper.” It’s Blaine that speaks, his chin resting on the back of Kurt’s seat, eyes widening in horror as Kurt pulls from the envelope a headshot of Cooper. Signed and dedicated: “ _To Kurt – Never give up. Love, Cooper Anderson.here; ”_

“Are you being serious right now?”

“Blaine,” Kurt chastises him, but Blaine can tell from his tone that he’s swallowing down a laugh. “Thank you, Cooper, that’s very…sweet. I’ll make sure to place it somewhere prominent so I can draw from it whenever I do in fact feel like giving up.”

He taps the photo with his forefinger before sliding it back into his envelope, and Blaine falls back into his seat with a groan, covering his eyes with his hands and wondering just how open-ended their tickets are – as in, could they realistically get on a plane home within the next hour?

“Well yes,” Cooper is still speaking, “I know you probably felt a bit uncomfortable about wanting to ask for an autograph during my time teaching at McKinley, when I was signing for your buds...” and _seriously,here; Blaine thinks, _he’s probably put that train wreck of a week down on his resumé as “drama teacher.”_ _

“...Because of our mutual connection to Blaine and all, so this felt like the ideal way of showing my support. Anything you need, Kurt: advice, contacts, anything at all, you only have to ask. If you’re as much of a keeper as Blaine says you are, then I plan to have your back.”

And he’s so damn earnest that Blaine wants to hug him as much as he wants to maim him.

: :

Margo, it turns out, is Cooper's girlfriend. The second he lays eyes on her Blaine wants to bundle her up, take her back to Ohio and present her to his parents: “Mom, Dad, you think it sucks that I'm gay? This is who Cooper's dating.” Not because he thinks he’s not going to like her, she looks awesome, but because his parents are so guilty of judging books by covers. The frustrated little brother in him can’t help but cling to whatever little thing might make Cooper less than perfect and so in turn might make Blaine less than the disappointing son. Sometimes he just wants to be able to stand in front of them and say, “Look, see, it’s not just me that’s refusing to conform to your stupid expectations.” It’s kind of vindictive, Blaine knows it is, but he’s spent a lifetime trying to measure up and there’s times you just have to take what you can get.

She's beautiful, there's no denying it; she also has bright pink streaks in her short black hair and a nose ring and a tattoo across her collarbone that must have _killed_ – she is so far away from Cooper's type that Blaine wonders if they disembarked the plane in a parallel universe. She's wearing a floaty linen skirt and a strappy top and each of her fingernails is painted a different color and as she leans in to kiss Blaine on the cheek he gets a not-altogether-unpleasant whiff of tobacco and liquorice.

Her voice is soft and warm. “Hey you guys, we're so glad you're here.”

“Your brother,” Kurt mutters quietly enough that only Blaine can hear, “is dating Quinn Fabray circa early senior year.”

“Right?” Blaine mutters back before they both fix Margo with their best Dalton full-wattage smiles and accept the ice cold lemonade – but not the cigarettes – and collapse onto the sofa while Cooper brings their bags in from the jeep. Margo is a poet slash bartender: poet for the love of it and bartender for the cash. She's been dating Cooper since last summer. A whole year; Blaine is amazed. Her favorite film is Fight Club, her favorite book Fear and Loathing and she's seen Wicked seven times, twice on Broadway. Kurt is in love with her in five minutes flat; he tells her that her ”fashion choices” would have labeled her a “skank” in Lima, but that she can be the Elphaba to his Glinda if she wants, and Blaine thinks her laugh in response is his second favorite of all laughs ever.

By the time Cooper has brought the last bag from the car, the lemonade is finished, Blaine is on the sofa with his feet curled beneath him, Kurt is singing “Popular” at Margo and Margo is still laughing and declaring Kurt to be “all kinds of awesome.”

“I know I said to make yourselves at home guys, but shit.”

Margo reaches for Cooper, who stands in the lounge looking bemused. She tugs him down to sit beside her, still laughing as Kurt stops singing and pretends to be affronted at the interruption. “Coop,” she says, “your brother and his boy are just _precious._ Can we keep them?”

: :

It's possibly the best vacation he's been on, Blaine decides three days in. He is so glad they came to LA, so glad for Cooper and who thought he'd ever be saying _that._ Cooper has been true to his word and they've seen more sights so far this week than Kurt says he's seen in his life. Blaine's used to it: an overdose of culture is par for the course when you're an Anderson, but Kurt hasn't seen much of the world outside of Ohio and he is lapping it up, demanding an itinerary off Cooper each evening and researching extensively, long fingers tapping quickly at the screen of Blaine's iPad before finally pulling outfits from the closet, each day's clothes coordinated perfectly with the agenda. Blaine's clothes still lie in his case because despite Kurt's best bitch face, Blaine is on vacation and why waste precious time packing and unpacking, God.

They've already done the double decker bus tour, complete with Cooper acting as tour guide and Kurt pretending to grumble about the wind in his hair as he gripped Blaine's knee in excitement. Kurt didn't even complain when Blaine managed to get him in pretty much every photograph he shot – and there were a _lot_ of photographs: Blaine is not an amateur photographer in name only, thank you very much.

They saw the Hollywood sign and Grauman's Chinese Theatre and Blaine put his hands in Johnny Depp's prints on the Walk of Fame.

“My hands have been where his hands have been. I'm never washing again.”

“His hands and the hands of 70 million other people who probably don't wash after using the bathroom.”

“Johnny _Depp,_ Kurt.”

“Basic _hygiene,_ Blaine,” Kurt had said, squeezing a generous dollop of hand sanitizer into Blaine's reluctantly upturned palms.

“You guys are so married," Margo had said fondly. Kurt had flushed while Blaine just grinned.

It's Margo's idea to stay in and relax that night. It's been three days of nonstop action and Blaine is glad for the chance to pull on his sweats and sit curled into Kurt's side, sharing take-out from the box and drinking a beer. He feels warm and fuzzy; Kurt is at the same time solid and soft beside him and it feels different somehow to all the times they've been comfy like this at home. It's as though in just three days Kurt has managed to wash away the grime of Ohio to reveal a brighter version of himself: more ready to laugh, with the same quick wit but with less bite. His movements are as graceful as ever but somehow more fluid; he's mesmerizing and Blaine is mesmerized, always. He's wrapping Blaine's hair around his fingers now as they eat and drink and talk. Blaine is fresh from the shower and his hair is damp and gel-free. Kurt is making the most of it: each tug of a curl serves as a reminder that Kurt loves him wholly – bushy-haired or not, Kurt loves him.

Margo is asking how long they've been together and Kurt smiles. “Longer than you two.”

And Blaine can't help but feel a little smug at that; it's ingrained, the need to always compete with his brother, to make the most of the times when he comes out on top.

“First love?” Margo asks and they answer together, a quiet “yes,” a shared smile and then Kurt says,  
”He was mine at least.”

Coop leans forward as though he can smell a story. “What, Kurt isn't your first love, brother?”

“Of course he is, first and only.” He looks up at Kurt. “You are.”

Kurt raises an eyebrow and turns to Cooper and Margo, eyes alive with mischief. “I have two words for you: Gap. Attack.” Kurt pops the cap off another beer bottle as he tells the story, embellished a little for dramatic effect and illustrated by song. It is of course the line about leaving toys in drawers that he chooses to sing to make his point, jumping to his feet and playing Blaine to Margo's Jeremiah, his every expression exaggerated. Soon enough, Blaine is groaning and hushing him and defending Jeremiah's hair (because it wasn't _that_ bad). When Kurt finally drops back down beside him they're all breathless with laughter. Cooper shakes his head.

“Oh Blainers.”

“Don't even!” Blaine is still laughing as he holds a finger in the air, a mock stern look on his face, his eyes twinkling as he looks from his brother to his boyfriend. “Don't. And if we're oversharing,” he grins, “Kurt was in love with his _brother._ ”

“Kurt!” Margo is a combination of scandalized and delighted.

“ _Step_ brother, Blaine, and he wasn't even that at the time, God. I hate you.”

“You love me.”

“I do.” Kurt’s smiling, his voice full of barely suppressed laughter, and his eyes when he looks at Blaine are so soft and full of love that it makes Blaine’s breath catch. There is nothing, Blaine thinks, that will ever compare to loving and being loved by this boy.

: :

California is good for Kurt. This surprises Blaine because it’s Kurt and he likens himself to porcelain and he’s all layers and scarves and Broadway and culture. Kurt’s a boy meant for the city streets but somehow, here, he’s something else entirely. He’s slightly tan – and _oh my God,_ that’s hot – and a little freckled, also hot. He’s showing more skin than Blaine has ever known him to show in public: long shorts, bare feet, thin t-shirts. He’s got slightly mussed hair, he smells like coconut and tastes like sunscreen, and he’s carefree – scrunched-up nose and that smile that shows his canines and the long lines of his neck are elongated as he throws his head back to laugh. And it’s like every time he moves Blaine just wants to do him, hard.

It’s like he’s left the Kurt Hummel whom NYADA rejected back in Lima, Ohio – the one he brought on vacation is just _Kurt_ and Blaine loves this, loves him.

They sit on the beach: Blaine lays back with his head rested on Kurt’s thigh and Kurt scoops handfuls of sand, letting the grains trickle slowly through his fingers as he talks to Margo and Cooper surfs; he is but a tiny dot in the crashing waves ( _“I know it probably looks effortless, but a body this good? It takes work.”_ ) It strikes Blaine now that Kurt needed this more than anybody ever realized; Blaine is so glad they came because he’s been feeling so helpless in the wake of that letter. For weeks he’s been unable to say much other than “it’s so unfair” and “you killed that audition, Kurt” and “I don’t understand how this happened” – all of which is incredibly useless and probably quite patronizing because it has happened after all and all the fucking indignation in the world won’t change that. He’s been unable to do anything other than viciously defend Kurt’s talents and hold him while he cries; listen while he rants and tell him every single day how loved he is. None of it has felt like enough, like _anything,_ until now.

Blaine picked up snatches of conversation during their first night here while laying down in the living room in that weird slightly tipsy half-awake state, face down on the rug that Kurt thinks Margo probably made herself, half-listening while the two of them talked. He’s had this conversation with Kurt so many times since the NYADA letter came; they’ve gone forwards and backwards, looking at it from countless different angles. Blaine is happy to continue doing so for as long as Kurt needs. This was the first time, though, that he heard Kurt let it all out to somebody other than him. It was different somehow, being on the outside of the conversation and listening in; listening to Kurt bare his soul to this girl he hardly knew. He heard how Kurt was devastated, how Tibideaux had built him up and knocked him down and isn’t that just unnecessary and cruel? How it hurt more than anything because he’d let himself believe, and what now? All Kurt had been able to think was how anything else could be any good if it wasn't that. Blaine’s heart had clenched in his chest and he’d forced himself awake and up – he’d grabbed Kurt’s face in his hands and just kissed him, trying to convey through actions what he still didn’t have the words to say.

But now it’s different. Now they’re on the beach in the afternoon, not at the apartment at night, and they’re sober and Kurt is talking to Margo again. Blaine hears how the sunshine feels like a tonic and he hears “my brother” and “my best friend” and how Kurt wouldn’t trade places with Rachel for anything, ever, not ever – he’s so vicious when he says it that Blaine raises his eyebrows in surprise, doesn’t open his eyes but smiles a little as Kurt’s fingers continue to card through his hair. Kurt says, “She might have NYADA but she doesn’t have Finn and being here, with you, with Blaine like this. God, NYADA’s just, well, it’s nothing – you know, not next to him.” Blaine reaches up, grabbing Kurt’s hand and bringing it to his lips, pressing a kiss to his palm and closing his fingers around it. Saying without saying, “I’m here and I love you, too.”

“Volleyball,” Cooper announces, (disturbing the peace, Blaine notes, as usual). Blaine opens his eyes to see Cooper shaking saltwater from his hair like some kind of over-enthusiastic dog and is just about to open his mouth and retort when there are hands grabbing his ankles and dragging him across the sand. “Come on Blaine, no time for sitting on your ass.”

“Get the hell off of me, Coop!” Blaine yells; his brother is a dick. He tries to wriggle free and fails miserably. “And who made you Dad anyway? We’re on vacation and we’ll sit on our asses if we please.”

“But _Blainey._ ” Cooper lets go of his ankles but he moves fast – before Blaine has had time to really register that he’s free, Cooper is straddling his chest, pinning him into the sand. “Team sports,” he breathes, “It’s the Anderson way.”

“Get the hell _off_ me,” Blaine repeats, lifting his hips and bending his knees and then they’re rolling around, all arms and legs and fuck that was Cooper’s teeth. He always did play dirty. A scuffle of Andersons on a Santa Monica beach; Blaine can hear Kurt and Margo laughing in the background and he is silently clapping himself on the back for taking up boxing because he might be small but he’s strong and he’s fast. He wriggles free, pushing Cooper away 'til they’re both laid side by side on their backs, gasping for breath.

“Is it bad...” Kurt asks, “that I thought that was really hot?” All Blaine can do is feebly flip him off.

There’s a bit of a disagreement over teams. Blaine says Andersons vs. Newcomers but Kurt says that’s hardly fair since Coop and Blaine have a lifetime of practice. Cooper suggests Kurt joins him to play vs. Blaine and Margo but Blaine’s having none of that because, “on what planet is it even remotely fair to pitch the people of over average height against Margo and me?”

They toss a coin for it in the end and Blaine ends up teamed with Kurt. Which seems fine – and if he's honest, it's what he'd been angling for all along – except they’re ten minutes into the game before he realizes he should've just let Cooper make the decision in the first place; whatever team Blaine ended up on would have lost. They’re being annihilated because Kurt is just picking it up to serve and Blaine is already distracted.

Distracted by Kurt.

Kurt and his long legs and his bare feet and the trickle of sweat that’s running down the back of his neck and the way he runs his hand through his hair... and the way that when someone calls time-out and he thinks no one's looking, he lifts up the hem of his t-shirt to wipe sweat from his face and oh my fucking _God_ Blaine is turned on right now. This is Kurt like he's never seen him: he’s all toned and sweaty and masculine, but more than anything he's _loose_ and Blaine wants to push him down into the sand and lick the sweat off him and just rut against him, like, for _ever_.

: :

Blaine wakes before Kurt the morning of the fifth day, which is unheard of, really, because Kurt is Kurt and Blaine is Blaine; while Kurt likes to make the most of every single day, Blaine believes his bed is his best friend second only to Kurt. He lays for a while in the semi-darkness, listening to the soft rise and fall of Kurt’s breathing, tries to fall back asleep but can’t. He shifts a little and hears someone moving around in the kitchen, detects the faint but unmistakeable smell of fresh coffee. Kurt’s rolled over in the night and he’s laid on his front now, one arm slung across Blaine’s bare middle. Blaine lifts it gently to slide out from beneath it, pressing a kiss gently to the back of Kurt’s hand before placing it back down and sliding himself slowly from the bed. Kurt snuffles at the disturbance and Blaine freezes, not wanting to wake him just yet, but Kurt just snuggles a little further under the sheets, Blaine watches him for a moment and it’s so tempting to lean in, to press his lips and just maybe his tongue to the expanse of Kurt’s skin, flushed and warm where it lays against the white sheets, kissing him all over, kissing him slowly awake; except he looks so peaceful that to wake him – even with kisses – would be unfair.

He grins and wonders if this is why Kurt has been in such a good mood every morning so far: because he’s woken up to this, to Blaine naked and asleep in their bed and he's imagined a future where this is just what happens, where they wake up together every single morning. Just the notion of it makes Blaine want to dance; instead, he grabs his pajama pants from the floor and slips quietly out of the room.

“Oh good.” Cooper is leaning against the island in the kitchen when Blaine pads through, rubbing sleep from his eyes and yawning. He has a mug of coffee in his hand and he pours another from the cafetière, which Blaine takes with a grateful smile as he lifts himself onto a stool, wondering why it is that everyone but him seems to be a morning person. “I was about to wake you,” Cooper says, “The grand plan for today...” Cooper drumrolls his fingertips on the countertop and Blaine grins sleepily, “is surfing.”

Blaine shakes his head. “Oh, I dunno, Coop. I mean I can’t and I don’t think Kurt...”

“Kurt’s not invited,” Cooper says simply, “and I’m going to teach you. That’s the point.”

“But Kurt…”

“Will be fine on his own for one day. Margo’s around, and Kurt strikes me as the independent type anyway. I’m sure he can keep himself entertained.”

Blaine wants to argue, wonders whether he should because this was supposed to be his and Kurt’s vacation _together_ – but Cooper looks so excited, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet, already dressed in board shorts and a rash guard and Blaine's always wanted to surf... He takes a mouthful of his coffee and shrugs his shoulders. “Yeah, ok. Cool.”

He makes Cooper take a photo of him at the beach once he’s zipped into his wetsuit. Ignoring his brother’s mocking “Jesus, you seriously have the itsy bitsiest waist, baby brother” and grinning wildly at his phone, Blaine quickly fires off a picture message knowing that Kurt will appreciate the way the heavy black fabric clings everywhere it touches. He’s right – the reply is practically instantaneous: “ _come back, right now. the apartment is empty and sea water is bad for your skin. <3”_

“It’s shit what happened to Kurt with NYADA,” Cooper states when he finally agrees they can stop to rest, pulling the ring on a can of coke he’d had the sense to stash in a duffel bag. He takes a long mouthful. Blaine nods, because it _is_ shit and there’s not a lot more to say than that.

“He seems like he’ll be ok though?” Cooper asks and Blaine nods again.

“He will be,” he says confidently, “I don’t think he’s quite figured out what he’s going to do yet, but he has options and he’ll be fabulous no matter what he decides.”

“He still planning on going to the Big Apple?”

“Yeah. That’s the one part of the plan that’s never been up for debate. Kurt’ll be in New York by the end of summer come hell or high water. Although he might be considering LA as a viable alternative right now.” He gives Cooper a mock glare, hopes he’s pitched his tone lightly enough – apparently not, as Cooper raises an eyebrow.

“And you’re cool with that? With him leaving?”

He shrugs and Coop kicks at him, demanding an answer. Blaine sighs and lies back, looking up at the blue sky as though somewhere, where there should be clouds he’ll find answers instead.

“I think so? Except, no. When he didn’t get into NYADA, a horrible little part of me hoped it’d make him stay. I hate myself for it, but I've always hated the thought of him leaving. I’m not sure I can existwithout him.” He chances a glance at Cooper. “Don’t look at me like that. I know it’s a dick thing to even think but you don’t know; it got bad for a while. We almost broke up.”

“But you didn’t and he’s still going, so how’d you fix it?”

“We’re in show choir and it was Whitney week,” Blaine says dryly, “How do you think?”

Cooper laughs and Blaine grins back, so happy right in this moment that he could burst with it; it's so easy, so nice, being here with Cooper like this, hanging out and just talking. Sometimes Blaine feels like he was a little ripped off; he was promised a big brother and what he was given was Cooper, and those two have never even felt close to the same thing. But things feel different now somehow, like the stars have aligned or something. Or maybe Coop just calmed his ass down. Either way, Blaine loves that they're here and they're talking and that Cooper actually seems to care.

“What about you, after graduation? Are you NYADA bound too?”

“I thought about NYADA, I did,” Blaine takes another mouthful of his soda, “but I don’t think I'll apply.”

“Because of Kurt? 'Cause I don't know him well but I know enough to know he’d hate to see you not realize your dreams because of him.”

“No.,.” Blaine pauses, “I don’t think I'd get in, actually. You should have seen Kurt’s audition, Cooper. He was phenomenal. If he can't make it, I can’t.”

“You don’t give yourself enough credit.” _And Cooper would know,_ Blaine thinks, _he gives himself more credit than the rest of the world does combined._ But he doesn't comment, just shakes his head; Cooper's wrong.

“I do. I know I'm good, I also know I’m probably ten a penny and if Kurt can’t make it, then…besides, I don’t know. Part of me wants to do more than just make art. I want to make a difference, _help_ people... I’ve thought about teaching. Or music therapy.”

“You’re so _good_ , Blainers.” Cooper laughs, knocking his shoulder into Blaine's and holding a hand to his heart.

“Screw you. I mean it though, I want to be more, but then at the same time I don’t – I think about my name in lights and I want that, too.”

“Broadway?”

“Maybe, but I don’t know. I love theatre, I loved playing Tony this year, but I’m a different kind of performer I think. I like being on stage, singing and dancing...” he grins then, and jumps to his feet. _“I wanna be a rockstar,”_ he sings – and he doesn't quite know how he's here, jokingly singing Nickelback on a beach to his brother like he means it. “But all that’s for later. Now is for Kurt, for helping him figure out which way to go.” He drops to his knees in the sand and runs a hand through his hair, still damp from the sea and slightly wild.

“And you’ll just follow him?”

“No, Cooper, I won’t just _follow_ him. The decisions we make are ours based on what we both want, me and him. I don’t know what it is that people don’t get: Kurt and me are _equals_. It’s not about him leading and me following and I am sick of you and _everyone else_ implying I don’t have a mind of my own when it comes to him, that I’d make decisions that will shape my entire future based just on what Kurt wants. Why the hell can you not give me a bit more credit than that? And why the hell can you not accept that Kurt and I aren’t just messing around here? What we have together, it’s for keeps.”

“You need to relax.” Cooper holds out his hands, palms up. “I just worry about you. It’s my job. You're Kurt’s biggest cheerleader, Squirt, and that’s amazing. But who’s yours?”

And Blaine remembers a role that Kurt wanted but Blaine got, remembers a vibrant bouquet, remembers “Cough Syrup,” remembers pep talks about Cooper and about his parents, remembers reassurances and promises and brutal honesty. “That’s what you don’t get, Cooper,” Blaine replies, “Kurt is.”

: :

“You know you’re going to be fine, right?” Kurt lowers himself gracefully onto the sand next to Blaine, toeing off his plimsolls and handing Blaine an ice cream cone, which has already started to melt in the too-long walk back from the ice cream stand. They’re in a secluded corner of the already quiet Malibu beach on a day set aside just for the two of them. Kurt arranged last night to borrow Margo’s car and now they’re tucked in a corner under some overhanging cliffs because Kurt doesn’t want to be in direct sunlight; they’ve angled their blanket so Blaine can tan and Kurt can, well, not and it feels like the perfect compromise. The beach is like heaven after a week of madness: Blaine is having the best time, but it’s nice to be somewhere quiet, somewhere where it’s a little easier to pretend that the only people in the world are him and Kurt. He takes the ice cream from Kurt with a smile, flicking out his tongue to catch the drop of sauce that threatens to make a bid for freedom in the direction of his shorts.

“What?” Blaine replies, playing dumb.

“You think I don’t see,” Kurt says, shuffling a little closer so they’re sat touching, pressed together from thigh to knee. Blaine can feel the heat of Kurt’s legs against his own and it makes him feel safe, grounded. “You’ve made it your mission to be boyfriend extraordinaire – which I love by the way so please don’t stop – but I know it’s like, 80% about making me feel better and 20% about distracting yourself from thinking about me leaving.”

Blaine feels his heart drop into his stomach the way it does every time he’s forced to confront Kurt’s imminent departure. He closes his eyes against the onslaught of feelings which never fail to hit him too hard, too fast. He takes a bite of his ice cream to give himself something to do that isn’t talking and wishes (not for the first time) that Kurt was less perceptive; except, of course, that Kurt’s perceptiveness is one of the things Blaine loves about him, so what does that really mean?

“But I am leaving, Blaine.”

And great, like this is a conversation Blaine wants to be having on a California beach when the whole point was supposed to be getting away from it all. Ever since that day before Kurt's graduation, when he'd promised Blaine they’d be ok, Blaine's been trying to put what he has privately termed “Operation Ostrich” into play. Basically he tries not to think about the fact that soon he will be where Kurt is not, and he tries to tell himself that he believes every word of reassurance that Kurt speaks to him.

The problem is that “Operation Ostrich” depends entirely on everyone else in the world playing along, and it seems like everyone else in the world (Kurt, Cooper, Burt, even Santana) is determined to coach Blaine through the very events he is trying his hardest not to dwell on.

“Yes, Kurt.” It comes out snappier than he had intended, or maybe it doesn’t. “I am aware you're on your way out.”

Kurt doesn’t react, except to shuffle impossibly closer. “But I’m not leaving you,” he says, “and we are going to be fine. You are going to be fine. You’re going to be better than fine. You know why?”

Blaine shakes his head almost petulantly and takes another bite of his ice cream. Perhaps he can concentrate on how much better ice cream tastes when you eat it on the beach – and how blue the ocean is, and how you can see so far out he could probably be convinced the world is flat; it’s easy to imagine reaching that perfectly straight horizon and going into freefall. It's easy to just let Kurt talk at him rather than to him. Just for a moment.

“This year is going to be about you, Blaine, and you're going to be so amazing. Your senior year is going to actually be magical, instead of the train wreck mine turned out to be. You’re going to be Blaine Anderson, leader of the Nationals-winning glee club, which I suspect means you’ll totally get to sing Bryan Ferry at competitions. You might even win Nationals again, even without Rachel and me. Do not tell her I said that. You’re going to have a stellar GPA and prove to your dad that McKinley wasthe right choice and you’re going to speak to Miss P about that counselling through music idea you keep talking about – which by the way, I still think sounds awesome. Brittany hopefully won’t be senior class president this time around, so you’ll be able to wear as much gel as you want to your senior prom, where nobody will vote you Queen because you’re what my Dad would call Rock Hudson Gay and you don’t, again to quote the great Burt Hummel, dress like you own a chocolate factory although I’d like to take this opportunity to remind you that some of your knitwear choices are questionable. You’ll take that photography elective because you are goodat photography, Blaine, and I know you want to. You’re going to be fabulous and you’re going to do it all without wearing socks.” He pauses for breath. “On top of all that you’ll also have a hotshot college boyfriend.”

Blaine huffs out a laugh. “The last part is true at least.”

“It’s all true. Blaine,” Kurt pauses again, as though considering his words carefully before he continues, “and believe me, this comes from a place of love... You seem to have been a little less rockstar Warbler lately and a little too much Bella Swann. And while I know you’re going to miss me – I know this because I’m going to miss you right back, and just as hard – I also know that you are not as co-dependent as you’re kidding yourself you are. If you’re going to rule the world like I know you can and will, with me right by your side, then you need to channel Blaine Warbler a bit.”

“So basically, I need to man up?” Blaine swallows the last of his ice cream and turns, quirking an eyebrow at Kurt. A part of him feels hurt, can’t help wondering if Kurt’s telling him not to miss him so that Kurt doesn’t have to feel guilty about not missing Blaine, but their eyes meet and Kurt’s are so full of love and concern. He’s looking at Blaine so earnestly, looking right into his soul and damn if that isn’t the sappiest thing ever and somehow Blaine knows Kurt means it, that he feels bad for that year he has on him, for leaving. That he’s worried about Blaine for Blaine's sake. Kurt smiles a little, reaching out to thumb away a smudge of ice cream at the corner of Blaine’s mouth.

Kurt says, “In a nutshell, yes. I think you do.”

Blaine grins then, because only Kurt could tell him to grow some balls and snap out of it and manage to make it sound like the most sensitive, caring advice ever. Only Kurt. He rolls his eyes exaggeratedly and grins a little wider. “Thank you for the pep talk, then.”

Kurt grins back. “Always a pleasure, never a chore.”

“You know,” Blaine leans down, stealing the last of Kurt’s ice cream with a wicked smirk, “I do actually know I’m going to be fine.”

And he does, deep down, he does know that. He doesn’t expect his entire world to fall apart just because Kurt’s not there every day, he doesn’t, if for no other reason than Kurt would disown him if he went all Twilight on his ass. He doesn’t want his boyfriend to leave, and he is dreading it with every fiber of his being. He’s so scared (when he lets himself be) that he’ll miss Kurt too much or that Kurt won’t miss him enough, and that the distance will be more than they can handle.

He worries that he is so used now to Kurt being there that he won’t know how to deal with him being absent, but he also knows himself well enough to know that he will survive. No matter what he’ll put on his show face, which he can get reacquainted with by looking back at Warbler videos; he likes to think his gives Rachel’s a run for her money. He’ll just pretend to be fine until he really is. He knows he can do it because he’s done it before: he thought his life was over after Sadie Hawkins for example; after the fact, he painted on a smile every day until one day he didn’t have to. He survived. Missing Kurt is going to be shit – the very thought of it makes him want to wrap his arms and his legs around his boyfriend in a koala tight grip and force Kurt to navigate New York with Blaine attached, but he will survive because he is an Anderson and he is a Warbler and because he has no other option.

“However, I also know that I’m going to miss you terribly and I’d quite like to mope over the fact that my hot college boyfriend is going to be all, you know, in college. And I mean, most nights we’ll have nothing to get off to but a crackly phone line and I’m going to have to sleep in one of your t-shirts just so I can remember how you smell. For now, I’d appreciate you respecting my right to mope or possibly using your mouth for something other than speaking words meant to comfort me while we still have that option available whenever we want it.” He stops, takes a breath, grins, “All this comes from a place of love, Kurt.”

He gives an over-the-top lascivious wink then, and he moves quickly: swinging a leg over Kurt’s thighs and pushing him back into the sand, pinning his wrists loosely above his head. Blaine nips gently at his jaw, up to his mouth, running his tongue across Kurt’s lower lip.

Kurt tenses a little beneath him, and Blaine sees the flash of panic in his eyes – we're in public, Blaine, people might see – and he presses their lips together, squeezing gently at Kurt’s wrists, a silent “it’s ok Kurt, the beach is practically empty; nobody is looking.” Kurt is tense for a second longer and then he relaxes, lifts his head from the sand to meet Blaine’s kiss, his tongue flicking out over Blaine’s lips this time. Blaine lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding in a hiss, closing his eyes and leaning in farther.

Slowly, he feels Kurt wriggle his hands, breaking free, running the flats of his palms over Blaine’s shoulders, down his arms, ghosting over his sides before coming to rest at the small of his back. Long cool fingers find the dimples there by instinct and press in, pulling Blaine closer. Kurt’s hands are always cold and Blaine has no idea how that is even possible.

Blaine shifts, sliding a leg between both of Kurt’s, Kurt’s hands pressed into his back, grazing the top of his shorts and the curve of his ass. His own hands rest in the warm sand by Kurt’s head, holding himself up as they kiss, as he teases Kurt’s mouth open with his tongue, nibbling and sucking and licking his way in and around. Kurt tastes a little like chocolate, always tastes a little like chocolate and Blaine loves that. He whimpers a little into Kurt’s mouth; Kurt exhales sharply and suddenly the kiss is messy, all tongue and teeth and ragged breaths. Blaine drops from his hands to rest on his forearms, needing to be closer, needing more – he’s already forgotten where they are: he presses down as Kurt lifts his hips off the sand. Blaine is half hard, can’t hold back the moan as Kurt presses against him still closer before stopping suddenly. Kurt's hands moving lightning fast to Blaine’s shoulders, pulling him up. Blaine raises a questioning eyebrow, his breath coming in short gasps.

“S’up?” He leans back in, missing the heat of Kurt’s lips already. Kurt shakes his head, a flush high on his cheeks and his eyes shining.

“Really Blaine,” and his voice is a little higher than usual, a little more breathy and Blaine can’t help but press his hips down, biting on his bottom lip to stifle his moan. “That was decidedly un-PG.”

“Don’t care,” Blaine replies, shifts his hips, “That was kind of the point.”

“We’re on the beach,” Kurt huffs, pressing his lips together primly, but he hasn’t made much effort to move away. He seems quite comfortable laid beneath Blaine, hands resting cool and firm upon the younger boy's hips. Blaine sighs, drops his head onto Kurt’s shoulder and rolls off to the side just a little, reaching for Kurt's hand to lace their fingers together.

“You are such a killjoy,” he mutters into Kurt’s neck, flicking out his tongue to taste him; he loves the skin right there on Kurt’s neck, the salty tang of it that’s all boy, all Kurt. Kurt shudders.

“Am not.”

“Are too,” and he does it again, a flick of the tongue and a press of the lips and he can’t see Kurt’s face but can imagine the way his eyes are closing, the way he’s pressing his bottom teeth into his lip. “You are killing my joy.”

“You obviously haven’t noticed, but there is a middle-aged woman with terrible, awful hair several yards away who is watching us like all her Christmas wishes just came true at once. I do not wish to go to bed tonight knowing some woman is in her bed…”

“Oh my God," Blaine groans, “stop talking right now. What is even wrong with you, like as a person.” He rolls away from Kurt onto his back, covering his eyes with his arm, and kicking out, half-heartedly in Kurt’s general direction as Kurt laughs, the sound lilting and musical. “I think I’m the one who’s scarred. I hope you’re happy; you’ve killed my joy and my boner for, like, ages.”

: :

“We should go out,” Margo says, walking into the apartment and kicking the front door closed with her boot. Blaine places his paperback on the sofa arm, careful not to bend the spine, and smiles up at her. She grins back, an easy smile that lights up her whole face, her eyes twinkling behind heavy mascaraed lashes.

“You just got back from being out,” Cooper points out from his spot on the floor. He’s laid on his back with his legs bent, left ankle resting on right knee and his hands pillowed behind his head. He says he’s spent the day rehearsing, but Blaine is unsure exactly what it is he’s rehearsing for; he seems to be deliberately vague when anyone asks, which is absolutely not “Cooper” and Blaine can’t help wonder if he really is the superstar he seems to think he is. Besides which, he was laid right there when Kurt and Blaine returned from the beach an hour ago and hasn’t moved since so pardon him, Blaine thinks, if he’s not convinced. In fact, Cooper’s been so still and so quiet and so _relaxed_ that if he hadn’t spent the rest of the vacation being so dramatically _Cooper_ (and that might be an unimaginative adjective but this is Cooper; is there a better one?) Blaine might be worried his brother had become a directionless stoner. And that is a sentence he never thought would cross his mind. It’s weird, because Coop is always so switched on, all of the time – so aware of his surroundings, of making an impression, of _being_ – that seeing him like this, totally unwound, is more than a little bit surreal.

“Hush.” Margo toes at him gently with a bare foot, which is confusing because she literally just walked in and where are her shoes? “Smart ass. I mean _out_ out. For dinner and drinks. The boys have been here a week and we haven’t taken them out on the town. That makes us terrible hosts, Anderson. We could go to Boa.” She turns to the boys, “Best crab cocktail in Santa Monica. Fact.”

Cooper raises an eyebrow, the rest of him still remarkably still. “It’s a bit short notice. We probably couldn’t get a table.”

“Baby, you’re _Cooper Anderson._ Of course we’ll get a table.”

Cooper grins then, pushing himself into a sitting position and stretching. “You make a very good point.”

Blaine is sure he sees the ghost of a smile cross Margo’s face; his brother has just been well and truly played.  
Margo is good for Cooper, Blaine thinks; she seems to know just exactly how to handle him, using his ego to get what she wants, somehow managing to manipulate him into thinking her ideas were his all along, but never detrimentally and often for Cooper’s immediate benefit. At the same time she seems to know exactly when and how to rein him in. Coop seems more like Cooper when she’s around; like the real Cooper with the heart of gold and the incredible sense of humor that Blaine rarely gets to see and less like the “look at me” Cooper who is all for show but no less annoying because of it. It’s like Margo gives him the confidence to just strip back and be himself and Blaine likes it.

“That’s ok with you boys, right?”

Blaine shrugs. He wouldn't say he’s bothered about going out. Kurt is sleepy from their day in the sun and is curled into him on the sofa: knees pulled up to his chest and resting against Blaine’s side, his head tucked into Blaine’s shoulder, long fingers gripped loosely round his forearm. It's just that a large part of Blaine doesn’t want to move. He loves Kurt like this, loose-limbed and lazy, affectionate in a way he never really is unless they are alone, which happens plenty but still never often enough for Blaine. He thinks he’d be happy here for the rest of the night, for the rest of forever with the familiar weight of a beautiful boy on and around him, the warmth of his breath ghosting against Blaine’s neck as he breathes in and out. Blaine presses a kiss to the head on his shoulder, inhaling deeply and taking in the comforting scent of tea-tree shampoo and the boy that’s his. Kurt shuffles impossibly closer, presses a discreet kiss to Blaine’s neck in return, tongue darting out to press at his skin and back in again so fast that Blaine wonders whether it even happened at all.

“Is there cheesecake?” Kurt asks drowsily, voice slightly muffled by Blaine’s neck though he's making no effort at all to move. “Because I think the only thing that could persuade me to move right now is the promise of good cheesecake.”

“Cheesecake,” Margo promises, without skipping a beat, “and cocktails, aaaaand...” she draws the word out, “ _karaoke._ ”

And oh! Blaine sits up a little straighter: karaoke. Maybe going out really is the new staying in. Or something.

He isn’t sure what to wear.

Kurt has gotten ready in record time and he looks perfect. Edible. Black skinny jeans and a black waistcoat over a fitted white t-shirt that emphasises both his perfectly toned torso and his almost-tan. His hair is beautifully styled in that just-so way that Blaine loves, slightly quiffed and slightly tousled. It’s making Blaine rethink his decision: karaoke might just be over-rated when _this_ boy is his alternative.

Kurt is sat on the bed, back resting against the headboard, his long legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankles as Blaine pulls garment after garment from his case before groaning and dropping them right back in again.

“If you had unpacked…” Kurt begins, the sentence dying on his lips as Blaine fixes him with a bitch face to rival his own.

“You could just go like that?” Kurt tries a different tack instead, tapping out a message on his cell and darting a quick glance in Blaine’s direction.

Blaine huffs out a sigh. “Not helpful Kurt, I’m in my _underwear._ ”

“It’s very becoming.”

“ _Kurt._ ” If he’s a little whiny, he doesn’t care; this is important. What is he supposed to wear to go out drinking in LA when he’s only just 18 and his boyfriend is Kurt Hummel, his brother Cooper perfect Anderson? ”I’m being serious.”

“So am I.” Kurt drops the phone onto the mattress beside him and moves on to his knees, shuffling to the end of the bed and reaching out, grabbing Blaine by the hips and tugging him forward to press their foreheads together, fingers still pressing into Blaine’s hips. ”Are you really questioning my fashion knowledge right now?”

He presses his lips to Blaine’s, the kiss closed-mouthed and dry but still enough to make Blaine’s breath catch a little in his throat. He runs his hands up Kurt’s arms, holding him by the biceps and leaning forward, pulling gently on Kurt’s lower lip ‘til he relents, and Blaine can feel him smiling against his lips. Kurt opens his mouth a little, Blaine’s tongue, flickering against his teeth and then past them licking into his mouth and loving the way Kurt’s fingers press that little bit harder, closer, until Blaine’s shins are pressed again the hard wood of the bed frame but he can’t find it in himself to care. Kurt’s tongue licks into Blaine’s mouth, devouring him, his breath deepening, like Blaine provides him with the very air he needs to survive. Kurt tastes like toothpaste and sunshine; Blaine thinks he could kiss him like this every minute of every day and never get bored of it. But there isn’t time for that now; Cooper is hollering at them to hurry up and Blaine is _starving._

“I am totally going to remember this moment,” he murmurs into Kurt’s mouth, not able just yet to pull away fully, “next time you are having a crisis of fashion.”

Kurt laughs and squeezes Blaine's hips, planting one last, open-mouthed kiss to his lips before pulling back and looking Blaine up and down appraisingly.

“Those jeans,” he says finally, pointing to the dark blue pair Blaine has already pulled out and dropped on the end of the bed, “and that shirt I got you, the charcoal one with the really fine light stripes. Which I hung up by the way, if you’re wondering.”

Blaine nods, because that might work, and rummages in his case for a moment... “With this,” he says decisively, holding a cream and grey striped bow tie aloft and reaching for the dark jeans with his other hand.

“Roll up the sleeves,” Kurt advises, jumping to his feet as Blaine ties his tie. and standing, hands on hips and his head tilted to one side as Blaine adjusts his tie and smoothes down his hair in the mirror, eyes meeting Kurt’s and lifting in question.

Kurt nods. “You’d get it.”

And Blaine almost chokes, because it’s such an un-Kurt like thing to say, yet he says it so casually, as though he’s been tossing comments like that around his whole life. He doesn’t laugh, though; he knows Kurt’s picked the phrase up from Margo, is trying it on for size, trying maybe to fit into this world that’s so different to what they’re used to. And to be perfectly honest, this new, sexy confident Kurt really turns Blaine on, so he just winks at him through the mirror and says, “That’s the plan,” and delights a little in the flush that starts high on Kurt’s cheeks.

: :

They do get a table, but it's less to do with Cooper and more to do with a 45 minute wait. Nobody wants to burst Cooper's bubble and tell him that though, so they don't. Blaine holds back an eye roll as Cooper tells them (in what he would probably deem a whisper but what Blaine thinks is more akin to a yell) how fame has its perks and how he wouldn't normally pull strings like this, _of course he wouldn't,_ but he's prepared to make an exception for Kurt and Blaine. Apparently being able to get a table like this at a moment's notice ( _does he actually believe what he's saying right now?_ ) for them makes dealing with the paparazzi worthwhile.

( _“It's a quiet night tonight, no paps around. You're lucky, usually it's a nightmare just going for a beer.”_ )

Blaine catches Kurt's eye, Kurt who still kind of looks a little awed when he's looking at Cooper... but whose lips curl upwards with a hint of a grin when he meets Blaine's eye, eyebrows raising imperceptibly.

_Yes Blaine, you were right all along: your brother is certifiably insane._

Blaine has always loved that; how they can communicate without even talking, like words are a tool they have no use for; a tool for others who haven't fine tuned the art of communicating through expressions or gestures, through small smiles, raised eyebrows, barely-there shakes of the head in the way he and Kurt can. It's not that he thinks that he is in any way better than the rest of the world – though he can't really say the same for his view of Kurt – more that he is just so incredibly grateful for what he, they, have. He feels so, so lucky.

“I'm starving,” Kurt says now, stepping closer to Blaine to let a waiter pass. Their fingers brush together and Blaine can't help but grab hold of Kurt's for a second, squeezing gently. Kurt squeezes back and God, Blaine remembers an evening of them talking in the dark, naked and sated and happy, their voices low; his head pillowed on Kurt's chest, wondering how he'd managed to survive seventeen years without sex. Remembers how it had felt in those first days, when Kurt naked and glorious was the only thought that filled Blaine's mind; when it had all been brand new and Blaine had been finally _finally_ able to touch and be touched. They'd laughed about that at the time: two boys discovering the intensities of sex for the first time and together, realising how much they'd been missing and how much there was left to explore. Now, months down the line, they’ve explored, oh have they explored, and yet there is still so much that they haven’t yet tried – but the knowledge that one day they will, that 'til then he has Kurt and Kurt has him, means that each brush of fingers feels like a suggestion, like a promise.

Blaine’s here in a Santa Monica restaurant with those cool fingers touching his – and maybe it's residual frustration from earlier at the beach but all Kurt did his squeeze his fingers and Blaine's heart is already racing. He needs to get a grip.

Margo is right: the crab cocktail is incredible and so is the steak. Coop and Margo order wine but Kurt and Blaine decline since they're going drinking later; the boys recognize the value of moderation, so they order sparkling water instead and drink it from wineglasses, chinking them together and taking tiny sips. Kurt holds his by the stem with his pinky finger pointing out and they pretend like this is their life: restaurants that aren't Breadstix and dinner dates that aren't with school friends and a town that isn't Lima. They talk and they eat and they laugh and Kurt is all smiles and expressive hand gestures, his foot hooked around Blaine's ankle the whole time. Blaine ponders briefly if his life has ever felt this right before.

Kurt orders cheesecake for dessert – he threatens Margo with actual bodily harm if it doesn't meet his expectations, then closes his eyes and actually moans around the first mouthful. His voice is a little breathier than usual as he declares it to be divine. He's such a _tease,_ side-eying Blaine as he welcomes the fork into his mouth. It’s an echo of another dinner, a couple months ago, when Kurt had made the exact same noise for no other reason than his food was that good and Blaine had almost choked on his drink, his voice deep and growly as he muttered, “ _Fuck_ Kurt, you’re so _hot_ ” and Kurt had given him that wide-eyed stare, that “?I’m hot? Are you sure?” stare, that “Oh my God Blaine, you’re turned on by me _eating_ ” stare and yes Blaine had been affected and had gone down on him even more enthusiastically than usual that night to prove it. Kurt is nothing if not a fast learner and there’s a slight smirk on his face now as his tongue flickers out to catch a crumb from the corner of his mouth. He shudders, a barely there movement that Blaine only notices because he is so aware of Kurt at all times... and what exactly is the etiquette regarding getting off in restaurant bathrooms?

Cooper gets the bill, which is a relief because they're school kids, really, and their vacation allowance doesn't cover three course meals in relatively fancy establishments – even so, Kurt contributes a few bills to the tip. He links his arm through Blaine's as they leave the restaurant and walk down the sidewalk in the direction of Margo's bar, his fingertips pressing into Blaine's arm through his shirt and Blaine feels like every nerve-ending is heightened: he has never wanted to fuck his boyfriend so badly in his _life_ and he has no idea what that is even about. He thinks there needs to be some kind of cheesecake ban. Kurt is oblivious, but then Kurt is almost always oblivious to his own appeal and that makes it worse somehow. They've arrived at the bar and he's slipped in front of Blaine now, nodding his head coquettishly to Cooper, who holds open the door. Blaine's boyfriend's hips are swaying, ass tight and so fucking perfect in those jeans and he needs a distraction, like, now.

: :

Blaine had worried a little bit about the bar. Sure, they have fake ID’s but they’re not exactly authentic, they’re not even good fakes and Blaine knows that when it comes down to it, they look their age. He was worried about looking like little boys playing dress-up, like not standing a chance of getting through the front door, about getting Margo into trouble because she _works_ here and that wouldn’t be fair. They’d caught the eye of the guy on the door, he’d raised his eyebrows and Blaine had felt his stomach drop, but then Margo was there, enveloping the doorman in a hug, whispering something in his ear and looking back at Kurt and Blaine over her shoulder. The doorman had said something, his expression when he met Blaine’s eyes stern but Margo had said something else, squeezed his arms and the guy had laughed, told them to have a good night and that was that. They were in and Blaine doesn’t know what Margo said, whether she swore to look after them, or whether she convinced him they were 21 or whether, heaven forbid, she _bribed_ him. Even if it had been blackmail he couldn't have brought himself to care because the bar?

The bar is _awesome._

It’s like, possibly the most awesome bar Blaine has ever been to. And that is absolutely not because he’s only ever really been to two and one of those was the dive and fiasco that was Scandals. It’s also not because he’s on his third of these beers that Cooper keeps buying that have tequila mixed in.

Maybe he is a tiny little bit drunk, but this bar really is awesome.

Blaine can totally see why Margo loves working here so much: the bar is her. If someone with magical powers, like maybe Kurt – except that’s a different kind of magic that Blaine is totally not going to think about now because he _knows_ he gets handsy when he’s been drinking – but if someone with _regular, commoner_ magical powers cast a spell on Margo and turned her into a bar, then this would be that bar. It’s kooky, and that’s such an awesome word. Blaine mutters it quietly under his breath and giggles, earning him a soft sideways smile from Kurt which just makes him giggle even more and smile so wide his face hurts a little.

The bar’s wide and spacious, but at the same time it’s kind of cozy, and that makes no sense but it’s how it is. The walls are pale but the lighting is low, and there are old movie posters on the walls interspersed with photographs of people like Jimi Hendrix and Elvis and Britney Spears and that’s so _awesome_ because everybody knows that the people with diverse tastes are the best kinds of people.

There are tables and chairs, hard-backed chairs and bucket armchairs and the occasional over-stuffed sofa against a wall or in a corner – nothing matches, it's like every item of furniture in the place was picked up in a thrift store or at auction, but it works somehow. “Garage sale chic,” Blaine calls it in his head, making a mental note to remember to tell that to Kurt later. He can already see Kurt taking mental photographs; he lets himself imagine their future apartment, which will be in New York and in Kurt's total control as far as interior decor goes, but Blaine won’t care at all because Kurt makes _everything_ look pretty.

If Kurt makes their home look like this bar he will be more than happy because it’s awesome; Blaine wants to _live_ here, and is it really bad that he thinks that about pretty much every bar he goes to? God, does he have a _problem_? Maybe he should stop, right now. He eyes his near-empty bottle warily and then focuses on the full part and the fact that he can count the number of times he’s been drunk on one hand. He has never ever smelled like beer in the morning and has never drunk wine from a paper bag instead of going to class. He absolutely does not have a problem. Blaine shrugs his shoulders and downs the last bit of his drink in one big gulp.

_Awesome._

They're at a table with a sofa, on which Margo and Cooper sit side by side, with Cooper's arm thrown along the sofa back, his fingers lightly tracing a pattern on her bare shoulder. She's pressed against him, turning occasionally to whisper something in his ear or press a kiss to his jaw as she thumbs through the karaoke book that's resting across her knees. Blaine can't help but smile; they're adorable.

“Are you going to sing?” Kurt asks her, leaning forward on his chair and twiddling one of the old pens thrown haphazardly on the tables (for writing down song selections) between his fingers.

Margo laughs. “Are you insane? Like I'd even try to follow any one of you guys.”

“You haven't even heard Blaine or me sing properly yet,” Kurt points out.

She reaches forward to pat him on the knee.

“No, but I've heard enough about you both to know going up against you in the world of song is never going to be a wise decision. My voice is so awful I had to sign papers to say I wouldn't grace the place with my dulcet tones before they'd even let me on the payroll.”

The boys laugh, then, and when Kurt tries to convince her that she can't be that bad, Cooper shakes his head, makes a slicing motion across his throat with his finger. “Oh my God, don't encourage her. Margo's that drunk girl on karaoke who makes everyone in the bar die of second-hand embarrassment.” He pulls her to him as he talks, pressing a kiss to her hair and leering at the boys over the top of her head. “Her _talents_ lie in other areas.”

He winks, and Blaine is absolutely not a prude but there is such a thing as over-sharing and this is so not a conversation Blaine wants to be having with his brother right now. Or ever. “TMI, Coop.”

“I always knew you only wanted me for my body,” Margo says affectionately.

“And your cherry pie.” Cooper amends and Margo laughs.

“I won’t sing,” she tells them, “That’s not my game, but I’m telling you, you want to keep an eye out for my moves. I am the queen of the dancefloor. People come from miles around to watch me get my groove on.”

“Moves like Jagger?” Blaine teases and Margo shudders, face still scrunched up in laughter.

“My God, darling, are you always so Top 40?”

Blaine can't wait to sing, has been trying to decide on song choices since the moment the word “karaoke” was uttered, and is practically bouncing in his seat now with impatience. He's handed in a handful of song slips, unable to narrow it down to one; it's  
like someone took all his favorite songs and shoved them in a cheap plastic ring binder, giving him free rein to sing them _all._ Karaoke is awesome. He'd pressed one slip of paper in particular into the DJ's hand, fixing her with a winning smile and saying, “Please, _please_ let me sing this one first.” When his name is finally called, followed by “Mona Lisa’s and Mad Hatters” he semi-dances his way through the bar to the stage hoping Kurt can see past the Elton John of it all and listen to the lyrics.

_I thank the Lord there's people out there like you_

Blaine launches himself into the song fully. He finds it easier to communicate through song most times; it’s easier to express himself through a melody than to try and find his way through the hodge podge of words tumbling around his mind and heart. His eyes find Kurt and come to rest there, head and foot moving to the beat as he curls his fingers into loose fists and sings a song across a bar to this boy who owns his heart.

_While Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters_  
Sons of bankers, sons of lawyers  
Turn around and say good morning to the night

Blaine sings to say that it'll be ok; to say, “Fuck NYADA, fuck everyone who dares to tell you no”; to say, “You're incredible, Kurt, incredible and invincible and beautiful and you are going to make it because you stand out from the crowd and not _despite that fact_ ”; and outright, “I thank the Lord there's people out there like you.”

_This Broadway's got_  
It's got a lot of songs to sing  
If I knew the tunes I might join in  
I'll go my way alone  
Grow my own, my own seeds shall be sown in New York City

Blaine grins through the claps and the cheers and can't help laughing in delight as he hands the microphone back to the DJ, who is looking at him, slightly agape.

“Wow,” she says, “You're- you're like, really good. Like, famous good.”

He plays the compliment off with a laugh and shrug of his shoulders, storing it away to come back to later; it feels good when people like what he does when they have no obligation to do so, and maybe next time he's having a bad day he can come back to tonight, to how he feels in this moment, and it will help him focus.

Kurt slips an arm around his waist as he returns to their table, pressing his nose to the hair at Blaine's temple. His “thank you” and “I love you” are barely audible, but they're the only words Blaine needs to hear and he's the only one who hears them – he squeezes back. He's not going to pretend he didn't sing tonight because he loves to sing, or that he didn't choose his song because Elton John – despite Kurt's protestations to the contrary – is on his own plane of awesome. When he has the freedom Blaine will always sing the songs that he loves, but this was a message to Kurt too, and he is so glad it was heard.

Margo doesn't sing, but Coop does, twice in a row: “Copacabana” because he actually believes Barry Manilow is cool (it's things like this that make Blaine question why he continues to look up to his brother), and Duran Duran, because this is Cooper and if there is ever an excuse to play Simon Le Bon he's going to take it. He sings “Girls on Film” with the same energy he'd possessed when he'd sung “Rio” and “Hungry Like The Wolf” with Blaine at school. He might not have the best voice in the world but he has the energy and the charisma to make up for it and the crowd cheers and claps when he's finished. Coop stops to shake a few hands and even sign the odd autograph as he makes his way back to the table.

“And that, kids, is how it's done.”

Blaine laughs at that because the girl on the mic is calling Kurt's name next. Blaine pushes at his thigh, a silent “get up there.”

“I think you'll find, dear brother, that _this_ is how it's done.”

Kurt steps up to the microphone, smiling sweetly and nodding as the girl double checks his song choice and keys the code into her computer. He swallows hard and closes his eyes. Blaine knows he's psyching himself up: it might just be karaoke but every performance counts to Kurt, is a chance to either impress or disgust. And for all he loves it, for all he was born to perform, Blaine knows that the anonymous phone calls to his dad all those years ago, the slushies and the name-calling, the endless struggle for Glee club solos, the loss of Tony, even to Blaine, people questioning whether he’d be able to pass (and that had hurt Kurt more than he’d ever let on), the whole fucking NYADA disaster... all of it has left its scars. Those first notes, especially when sung without the comfort of Kurt's friends around him, are always akin to jumping off the high diving board: petrifying before they become exhilarating.

The opening bars to Gershwin's “Summertime” play through the speaker system and Blaine takes a sharp breath. He's heard Kurt sing this before, crooning in the car, and he loves it, loves how it fits Kurt's voice, how he sings it low, a little breathy, and full of confidence.

_Summertime, and the livin' is easy  
Fish are jumpin' and the cotton is high_

The bar has gone quiet, conversations drawing to a sudden close as Kurt sings, one hand rested on his abdomen and his foot tapping, his eyes closing as the music takes him over. He leans into the breaks, his forefinger tapping out the beat against his stomach in time with his foot, singing through a soft smile as the music takes him over, and that’s always the thing about Kurt, he becomes the song each and every time. It's not a successful performance if the audience hasn't lived the piece. His voice takes everybody unawares and people are putting down drinks, turning to watch and listen, awed.

Ella has nothing on Kurt: the audience loves him.

Blaine's not even surprised. Even through poor quality karaoke speakers, Kurt's voice is out of this world. Blaine knows Kurt sees that as both a blessing and a curse; more of the latter, as of late. The Gershwin is perfect for him though, and he owns every note: belting low and soulful, gripping the microphone stand, swaying loosely in time.

_Your daddy's rich, and your_ brother's _good looking._

He catches Blaine's eye as he changes the lyric, smiling around the words and winking. Blaine huffs out a laugh. Kurt’s funny and adorable and hot as all get out – and he's Blaine's. He can't even bring himself to look at Cooper, is surprised his brother's not whooping in support: it's not like him to let anybody else have the limelight and being mentioned in song – no matter how tongue-in-cheek – will play right into his ego. Blaine mouths the word “rude” at Kurt, who gives a little shimmy in response. The lyrics couldn't be more perfect; yes, yes, one of these mornings Kurt _will_ rise up singing.

“You're a talented pair of pups,” Margo says, leaning forward so as to be heard amid the claps and catcalls as Kurt finishes and takes a bow, cheeks flushed and smile wide. “Make sure to remember little old me when you're rich and famous.”

Blaine laughs – if nothing else, Margo is unforgettable. He raises his hands above his head to clap loudly as Coop pushes past the other patrons to pull Kurt to his chest in a bone-crushing hug.

“-pretty good...”' Cooper's saying as they slip back into their seats, “although your breathing could do with some work. My vocal talents haven't been properly showcased so you haven't really seen all that I can do yet but I'd be happy to spend some time with you before you leave? I'm sure Blainers will tell you how much I helped him train his voice and like I said, I've got your back, so.”

Blaine rolls his eyes. “Shut up Coop,” he says and pulls Kurt to him in an awkward half-sitting, half-standing one-armed hug. “You are incredible,” he whispers, pressing a quick kiss to Kurt's jaw before settling back into his seat.

: :

“You could always move west and live with us.” It's Cooper who says it.

Karaoke is still going strong in the background but they're taking a break; Coop’s been drinking all night, more than Kurt or Blaine, and since Blaine feels a little tipsy Cooper must be well and truly drunk. There's nothing like alcohol to make philosophizing seem like a great idea, and no matter how they try to deny it, there's no getting away from the fact that Kurt's plans for the end of the summer are the huge elephant in the room. Cooper sounds more earnest than Blaine has ever heard him as he extends this invitation, leaning forward and places a hand on Kurt's knee.

Blaine can't help wonder where this has come from, whether it is just the alcohol talking – because for so long Cooper was so wrapped up in himself that Blaine felt like he might as well not have existed and now there's this. It's like Cooper only exists in extremes.

“I could get you auditions, an agent... It's the city of dreams, Kurt! You could get jobs to keep you going 'til the real work comes in and you could live with us. Blainers could apply to colleges here. We'd be like one big, pretty, talented family.”

_LA isn't the city of dreams though_ , Blaine thinks, not for Kurt and not for him, but he appreciates the sentiment, and he loves Cooper so much right now for even considering this an option, for being prepared to open his arms and his world for Blaine – and more importantly, for Kurt. He lets himself wonder if maybe they could do it; Kurt could find the theatre here and Blaine, he could teach all day and sing at night. It's not New York but it has his brother and if it has Kurt, then really it has everything. Who needs Central Park when you have the ocean on your doorstep?

“Coop. You're drunk,” Kurt says but he's smiling and his eyes are shining and Blaine knows he's touched.

“Maybe,” Cooper shrugs, waving a hand expressively in the air, “but I'm serious all the same. You'll be _stifled_ in Lima. You'll shrivel up and die. And _clearly_ you're not right for New York.'”

Blaine wants to stop him right there because how dare he? Kurt is right for anywhere he wants to go, and he squeezes Kurt's hand tightly. Kurt just looks at him and smiles, mouths, “it's ok” and turns, smiling, back to Cooper, who is still talking.

“…but LA is a different world. There's a space for everyone here.”

“What Coop means, I think,” Margo interjects diplomatically, “is that if you were to decide being in New York after the whole thing with NYADA was a little too much like salt in a wound, or, if you were to decide college wasn't for you at all, there is always a place for you here. You have options is all. If you still choose New York then you will be ready, whatever my oaf of a boyfriend might say to the contrary.” She gives Cooper a pointed look, and he grimaces sheepishly.

“I just meant...”

“I know, Coop,” Kurt interrupts gently. “It's ok, I know what you meant and I appreciate it, both of you. Thank you, really.”

: :

It's late by the time they get back to the apartment, having wandered home through the Santa Monica streets that are never quite dark, laughing and singing and chatting, Kurt's fingers laced tightly with Blaine's and Margo's arm around his own waist. Cooper had walked ahead, acting his way through town, using the three of them as a test audience for upcoming audition pieces. Nobody is sure if he's supposed to be funny but he _is_ and they have to keep stopping so Margo can double over with laughter. Cooper fixes her with an exaggerated glare, pointing a finger at her and shaking his head with a dramatic “you _mock_ me? How dare you!” which of course only serves to make Margo laugh harder and Blaine wonders again just exactly what it is about Margo that brings this out in Cooper, this ability to laugh at himself.

Blaine knows that Kurt isn't quite fine, that his laughter is forced and his smile isn't quite reaching his eyes. Blaine doesn't know whether he's just drunk and tired or whether something more is on his mind (the conversation with Cooper perhaps), but he knows better than to ask, knows that sometimes Kurt just needs to process, that he'll come to Blaine when he's ready. So Blaine just holds his hand, grip firm and constant, thumb tracing Kurt's wrist and sending secret code through his pulse.

Margo despatches them each to bed with a kiss on the cheek, a painkiller, and a glass of water into which she drops some kind of soluble vitamin tablet that fizzes wildly and turns the liquid sunflower yellow. “It'll make your pee luminous,” she says sagely, “but it's the best hangover prevention I know.” And the boys nod and take their glasses into their bedroom, pulling faces as they down the drink, clumsily ridding themselves of their clothes. It doesn't escape Blaine's notice that Kurt doesn't even bother to fold his clothes before he collapses backwards onto the bed, resting on his elbows. Blaine knows he'll regret it in the morning, so he crouches down and picks up the discarded items, folding them carefully, placing them on the chair in the corner of the room, and turning to see Kurt smirking at him from his position on the bed.

“What?”

Kurt pats the bed next to him, gesturing for Blaine to join him with a flick of his head.

“I was just thinking that there should be some kind of rule that forbids you from wearing clothes when we're alone together.”

“Why Kurt,” Blaine presses a hand to his chest, mock-affronted, “were you checking me out while I folded your clothes?”

“Yes,” Kurt says simply, moving fast and rolling so his body is over the top of Blaine's, his forearms muscled and strong in the corner of Blaine's vision as he lowers his head, closing his eyes and catching Blaine's mouth in a kiss that is at the same time tender and hungry. “Yes, I was.”

: :

The bed is cold when Blaine awakes and he’s not at all surprised to find Kurt gone. It’s funny how in such a short time he’s gotten used to sleeping tangled up in Kurt and being without the weight of his body is enough to stir him. It's not quite light outside and he rolls over, grabbing blindly for his watch and sitting up. This is early, even for Kurt, and Blaine is worried as he swings his legs over the side of the bed, curling his toes as they come into contact with the cool wooden floor. He reaches distractedly for his pajama pants.

He finds Kurt on the balcony, dressed in boxers and a t-shirt and shivering slightly in the cool morning air. Blaine pads lightly across the living room, slipping through the crack in the door to join him. He takes the blanket around his own shoulders and wraps it around Kurt's too so they're huddled beneath it together. The length of his body presses to Kurt's so they're touching from ankle to thigh to hip to arm to shoulder.

“What are you doing?” he asks softly. Kurt shrugs against him.

“Couldn't sleep.”

“What're you thinking?” Blaine has a feeling deep in the pit of his stomach that this could be something pivotal, and he moves his hand a little to thread his fingers through Kurt's. They haven’t seen Santa Monica this early in the morning throughout their whole vacation and it’s kind of peaceful to stand here on the balcony before the rest of the world has woken. The sun’s just rising, the sky a mixture of deep reds and oranges and almost purpley blues as the night disappears to let the day take over and it’s like they can see for miles: palm trees swaying gently in the breeze and the deep red of terracotta roofs, down to the ocean, golden sand and rising sun reflected against the sea that’s so calm there’s barely a ripple from this distance. It feels like they could be the only people in the world and it’s enough to take Blaine’s breath away. He inhales deeply, big lungfuls of air that taste clean and fresh and fill him with promise. He holds Kurt’s hand, waits for him to speak.

“Nothing.” A pause and then softly, “Everything.”

He doesn't elaborate and Blaine doesn't know what to say, really. He holds Kurt's face in his free hand, skin cool beneath bed-warm fingertips, and presses their lips together. “Go and get dressed.”

“What?” Kurt looks baffled.

“You heard me. Come on; we're going for a walk.”

: :

Blaine's never been as thankful for early hours coffee shops in his life as they duck in, ordering a medium drip and a non-fat mocha to go. The two of them begin to walk towards the beach, silent save for the swallowing of their drinks. The beach is deserted. _Of course it is_ , Blaine thinks, _the sane rest of the world is still tucked up in bed,_ and it’s different to how it’s been every other time, not just because it’s quiet, although that’s a part of it. It’s calmer, cooler, they can hear the waves rolling gently against the shore, as though they too haven’t quite woken up. There’s a mist still hovering over the sea almost ethereal, and a breeze in the air – it’s not quite cold but makes Blaine wish he had slightly longer sleeves – carrying a faint fresh but lightly salty scent. Blaine breathes deeply through his nose as they drop their empty coffee cups into the trash at the edge of the sand and toe off their shoes. He kneels in the sand to roll Kurt's jeans up past his ankle, leaning in to press a kiss to the bone there and smiling as Kurt huffs out a laugh above him.

“This is why you should wear capris,” he says as he pushes himself back up to his feet, the sand cool beneath his toes in the way it never is once the sun is high in the sky, and pats his thighs in illustration. “No rolling required.”

“If I was wearing capris,” Kurt points out, “then you wouldn't be down there kissing my feet.”

“Ankles,” Blaine corrects, “I kissed your ankles. There's adoration and there's _adoration_ , Kurt, let's not get ourselves confused.”

Blaine's glad it's so quiet, he's wanted to kiss Kurt so badly and the deserted beach means he doesn't think twice about darting forward to press their lips together. One hand comes up to tangle in the hair at the nape of Kurt's neck, pressing him closer, and Blaine is breathing him in, tasting the mixture of coffee and toothpaste and _Kurt_ that's so familiar and still so unknown. Tongues flick out to taste more, more, _more_ , with teeth nipping and breath coming faster; Blaine doesn't think twice about kissing Kurt here like this, about walking with him on the sand, with shoes dangling from the tips of fingers, their free hands clasped loosely between them. It's peaceful, nice, and they walk like that quietly for a while until Kurt takes a deep breath.

“I have to get out of Lima, B.”

Blaine nods, exhales slowly. “I know.”

“I have to show...”

But Blaine shakes his head because _no, you don't have to show anybody._

“I have to show _myself,_ ” he sounds a little desperate and Blaine wishes he could turn back time and stop it all from happening: grab that moment after Kurt's audition and let him keep that feeling, always. “God, Cooper's right: I'll die if I stay in Ohio forever. Hell, I’ll die if I have to stay even another _year_. I don't want to be a Lima Loser. I don't want to be Kurt Hummel who had all the dreams and couldn't make any of them reality. Being here, seeing all of this: Cooper, Hollywood, the bar last night... It just, I have to get _out._ ”

Blaine knows, understands: he feels it too, this need to get out, see more, be more that crawls beneath his veins, never really going away. His grandmother calls it “wanderlust” and as long as “wanderlust” doesn’t mean trekking the world with their lives in a bag on their back, then Blaine’s inclined to agree with her; he can’t imagine a world where Kurt would travel light. Yes, Blaine _knows._ There’s a whole world out there – Blaine is determined to see more of it than just Ohio, has visions of him and Kurt taking it by storm hand in hand, perfectly styled and so in love.

“And LA?” he asks, remembering Cooper's drunken offer of the night before.

Kurt shakes his head. “. LA... it’s- I’m glad we’re here, glad we came. It’s been the best vacation ever but it’s just that: a vacation. New York? It’s hard to explain but it’s like it _calls_ to me, like it’s where I was supposed to be all along. The fashion capital of the _world,_ Blaine – God, imagine the sample sales – and people would- they’d understand the way I am there, appreciate the statement instead of being scared of me and of Broadway. There is nowhere in the world that compares to Broadway and its people and the culture. There’s every type of person in New York, a district for every culture, a place where you can be diverse and people appreciate it, yearn for it. And maybe I am naïve and maybe I am looking at it through rose-tinted glasses but I want to be part of that, it’s the only thing that makes sense for me. I do appreciate Cooper’s offer. LA is amazing, but it's not New York.”

“No,” Blaine says, because it's not, nothing is. And Kurt and him, they're well and truly destined for New York, somehow.

“Blaine?” He's stopped walking and he tugs on Blaine's hand gently, pulling him around 'til they stand facing each other. Kurt steps forward, pressing their forehands together; their intertwined hands hang between them. Blaine curls his fingers tighter, presses against the spaces between Kurt’s knuckles, leaves invisible fingerprints like silent reminders: ” _I’ve got you, Kurt, I'm right here and I’ve got you.”_

Kurt closes his eyes for a second, opening them and looking right into Blaine’s and it’s like in that moment Blaine feels as though he can see absolutely everything, like Kurt’s laying himself bare and open. He stares right back, trying to convey without speaking every single word, every single feeling that he wants Kurt to hear. Kurt leans in for a gentle press of lips, dry and closed mouthed.

“Blaine, shall we go home?”

[Fin]


End file.
